


Pyromania

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, Fuckbuddies, Revenge Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-30
Updated: 2010-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona uses Sam as a revenge lay, but it might just mean more than that to them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyromania

Sam was having one of those nights, the sort that forced him to question his own sanity.

_Tip tap._ Red nails impatiently danced against the wood grain. "Are you looking for something, Sam?"

He opened his eyes and glared up at the woman posed like a car model at the edge of Michael's kitchen table, her bright red dress pulled up to her thighs and her breasts exposed to the orange-shaded light.

Christ. How the hell had he gotten himself into this?

Oh, he remembered too well. They'd been at Carlitos, celebrating another mission gone right. A mob widow looking to get out of the lifestyle. The rescue mission involved automatic weapons, Molotov cocktails and angry Russians with suitcase nukes. Sam still wore a bandage on his forehead from where he'd hit the pavement after being elbowed in the nose by Fiona. He didn't have much to complain about; they'd all made it out alive, and were paid handsomely for their efforts.

Their celebratory dinner had been comfortable, until Fi and Michael felt the need to discuss their relationship over marinated skirt steak. Their romance has intensified over the past few weeks, and was the prime topic of conversation whenever Sam hung around. In any status, their union just plain weirded Sam out; he still didn't quite trust Fi or think she was good enough for Michael. But, to avoid listening to them quarrel for hours, Sam made his excuses and headed toward the restaurant's bar, where he treated himself to a beer on Michael's tab. He'd been on his second when the increasingly loud argument at Michael's table drew comment from the bartender. Sam strove to make himself smaller against the chrome surface. His camouflaging technique needed work - Fiona easily found him and threw herself inelegantly onto the stool beside his.

"Vodka neat," she snapped to the bartender.

Right there and then Sam knew something had gone wrong. Pure vodka, the ultimate tool of oblivion. He glanced back toward Michael and could barely make out his antic face in the distance, mouth drawn comically downward in horror.

"Keep them coming," she instructed the bartender, pounding down the first shot and then the second without pausing for breath.

In spite of himself, Sam began to worry for her – and his imported leather shoes. Risking the possibility of eventual splashback, he asked, "what the hell's going on?"

She released a stream of invective so powerful that Sam's brow wrinkled, mildly impressed by her creativity. Mike's being 'distant' and 'unavailable' and 'dishonest' and a bunch of other buzzwords that Sam collectively dismissed as psychobabble. She was frustrated – she'd wasted her life on him– was Sam going to finish that beer?

The hours ticked by and Sam stayed with her, half out of gentlemanly concern, half out of fascination. Fi had the constitution of a truck driver and it took a hell of a lot of alcohol to get her tipsy; once afflicted, however, she passed right by the inebriated stage and sailed directly into drunktown. He laughed nervously at her off-color joke about the Pope and Winston Churchill as the bartender quietly took Fi's shotglass out of her limp fingers, the international 'you've been cut off' signal.

"I think you'd better get home," he suggested. "Lemme take you."

"Isn't that what you tell all the girls, Sam?" she wondered flirtatiously.

"To Mike's table, Fi," he grunted, the mental image of himself and Fiona together – physically together- playing through his mind in an unpleasantly beguiling way. Swaying on her four-inch-heels, Fiona crashed into Sam's protective arm, laughing as they struggled toward Michael's table…and found it abandoned.

That made Sam the designated driver – his least favorite phrase – as they took his car back to the loft.

It, too was abandoned – a note from Michael tacked to the refrigerator door reading, "Fi – on emergency call to mom's. Be back by midnight. Michael."

Fiona snarled, crumpling up the note and tossing it to the floor. Sam let her stew, avoiding the confrontation, sitting her before the table and forcing her to drink coffee until she reached some semblance of clarity.

"I don't care anymore," she eventually told Sam, getting out of the chair and sitting down at the edge of the table. Sam stayed where he was, in a chair beside her, eyeing her warily. "The very nerve of that man! Tomorrow he'll bring me an omelet and expect me to forgive him. The man is a walking popsicle!"

"What's so bad about being a popsicle?" Sam wondered. He knows, but he couldn't resist the barb, "it's better than being a trigger-happy pyromaniac."

"You must be tired, Sam. That's a terrible excuse for a put-down." She leaned back on her elbows, her knees spreading further apart, giving Sam an incredibly clear view up her skirt and of her black lace thong.

Automatically, Sam stared at her crotch for a moment, his hormones temporarily overriding his common sense, before jerking his eyes toward the refrigerator. "I must have a concussion from being thrown onto that sidewalk."

Fiona rolled her eyes, but he was still pissed about her knocking his ass over. He'd seen the barrel! He would've gotten himself out of the way! "Your reflexes are getting rusty," she informed him. "I'd seen it minutes before you even turned your head. Maybe you should consider retirement, boyo." She tracked his gaze, and a dangerous light sparkled in her bright eyes. Fi's legs fell further and further apart – she took his chin in her right hand, forcing him to look at her, exposing herself to his gaze. "Sammy…"

"Sam." Sammy! He shuddered.

"I wonder what Michael would do if he knew I'm going shag you rotten in his kitchen."

Sam's eyes went wide as he sat frozen against the chair, his face a mask of confusion.

"It's justice," Fi said, as she nonchalantly tugged her panties off and placed them beside her on the table.

"You want to cheat on Mike? With me?" It was the forbidden thrill of it that captured Sam's attention, the kind that had driven him to sleep with married women, with random strangers.

"It's hardly cheating when there's nothing between Michael and I," she explained. "I only want to have a little bit of fun. And you're fun, aren't you, Sammy?"

"What…" he swallowed hard to clear his squeaking vocal chords. "What's in it for me?"

Fiona smiled, predatorily, before lowering the top of her dress, exposing her breasts.

"Nice," he retorted flatly. "I won't do this to Mike. He's my friend…my ONLY friend," he glared pointedly. "If he finds out, he'll kill me."

Fiona grinned, her shoulders shifting as she rucked her dress up. "But that's a thrill for you, isn't it, Sammy? The idea of being caught – the notion of touching something you shouldn't…" She scooted closer to him, and he could feel her hot, coffee-scented breath against his chin, and knew she spoke the truth. She pecked it and then sighed, "If you're terrible, I won't tell."

Sam leaned forward, holding her gaze. "And if I bang your socks off?"

She chortled, leaning backward against the table. He hesitated, staring at her, at the pink softness of her vagina as she lounged backward on the table. Poised on her elbows, she resembled an obscene Varga painting. A pretty, wet, warm-looking Varga painting. With a million dollar pussy. Even though it was a physical part of Fi, even though he alternated between despising and tolerating her, his cock hardened. It's only been a couple of days since he'd last gotten laid – suddenly it felt like years.

Fiona smirked at him, noticing instantly – a cheshire grin that taunted, accusing him of cowardice. "Don't you want to show me why you're so popular, Sammy?"

That's how Sam found himself on his knees, jerking Fiona's dress up to her waist, pulling it down to her ribcage, sucking on her tits and staring contemplatively at her shaved pussy, wondering how to proceed.

"Would you like a map?" she finally asked, watching him with her typical amused detachment.

Her sarcasm – the insinuation that he was out of his depth – caused Sam to growl.

He'd had plenty of experience with women - Fiona had unkindly insinuated too much experience on multiple occasions - and his sexual wanderlust had taught Sam that most women fall into two categories when it comes to oral sex; ice cream cone types (long, slow licks) or motorboat types (hard rapid flicking). There were variations on the theme that made each woman special, but the basic underlying principle was the same, whether they were beauty queens or wallflowers. Sam quickly decided Fi was a motorboat gal and dove in.

He devoured her with rapid, skillful flicks of his tongue, two fingers thrusting in and out of her warm cunt with an even rhythm. Her nails kept tapping against the table, in rhythm to his tongue, the tips of her toes catching his side, the stiletto heels digging into the soft flesh of his upper back. The disconcerting notion that he had no idea if she liked it flitted across Sam's mind. He couldn't take comfort in the fact that she was wet; Sam thought that women like Fi were permanently wet, sexual creatures just looking for something solid to sink their claws into. But wet was better than dry; it meant she had to like it, right? Of course: she loved it. No woman left Sam Axe's bed (well, HER bed – or her car…or her sofa…) without having The Big O.

Arrogantly satisfied, Sam glanced up into Fiona's face and was hit head on by her detached boredom.

"You have done this before, haven't you, Sam?"

Sam frowned up at her. "Don't mess with me. I can taste how much you like it…"

"Oh, I do. You simply need direction…" She ran her fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair and said, "long, slow strokes. Treat me like I'm a cone of frozen yogurt."

Huh. "Didn't think you were an ice cream cone type."

"Hmm?" she'd detached herself once again, running the tips of her fingers over her own breasts. "You have so many 'buddies', Sam. Don't any of them tell you what they like?"

His 'buddies' don't talk about what they're feeling when they're in bed with Sam – most of the time he let them lead, and frequently – in a testament to his general laziness – they came to climax around him, fingers rubbing their clits, his cock getting all the benefit of an orgasm without earning it. He started sweating under his bright-blue Hawaiian shirt, knowing that Fi wasn't about to settle for that tonight.

Sam glanced at his watch as he kept his tongue busy – eleven o'clock. He had an hour to get Fi off or risk Michael walking in on them and so, reluctantly, he followed her directions. Long, slow strokes were delivered to her clitoral area. She hummed with interest, playing with his hair again, her eyes closing slowly.

He was a popular gigolo for a reason – his general technique was well-practiced and rarely failed. He paid close attention to Fiona's breathing, to the motion of her hips against his hands, to the tension in her thighs. When they were concrete –firm, when her pulse began to beat hard against his left hand, he turned up the intensity level. Sam used three fingers within her, grasping blindly her breasts with his right. Another glance at Fiona's face told him that she approved of his actions.

She approved, but she wasn't coming. His mind wandered as he dragged out her pleasure, his eyes to his pumping wrist. Forty minutes 'til Michael came home. What the fuck would Sam say if Mike came any earlier? _Sorry, Mikey, I tripped and fell face-first into your girlfriend!_ He felt a wave of doom crash over him as he realized that Michael would go into a rage and give him a richly-deserved asskicking, because for some strange reason Fiona was his best friend's world. And Sam knew that Fi loved Michael, that Michael was the only man Fi had ever loved, misguided revenge-based lays aside.

Christ, he was an asshole for doing this. The lowest of the low for fucking Fiona, though she wanted it (begged for it, he corrected himself). His mind turned abruptly to happier thoughts – maybe this would break them up. Maybe then she'd leave him alone. Maybe then and Michael could…

Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute. Why the fuck did he want to be alone with Michael?

Fi yanked sharply on Sam's hair, drawing his attention back to the task at hand. He realized suddenly that her pleasure had plateaued out. Images of her slicing his balls off for denying her a climax danced through Sam's brain as he redoubled his efforts, concentrating on her clit, flicking it with his tongue. In desperation, he hooked his tongue around the small rise of flesh and her thighs clamped powerfully around his ears.

_Ding,_ Sam thought, and he nuzzled the soft thighs with his stubble coated cheeks in praise.

"Did you just say something?" Fi panted.

He responded by wrapping his tongue around her clit repeatedly, gently, in silky motions that made her squeeze his shoulders between her palms and clamp her thighs against his ears. A typical reaction to such pleasure, but Fi's legs were stronger than Sam was used to - he panicked, his tongue going mad inside of her, which finally got her off.

Guilt was an unfamiliar feeling to Sam, but it was guilt he felt as he made Fiona Glenanne come on Michael Westen's kitchen table.

In the afterglow she lay replete and quiet, the cheshire grin firmly back in place. Sam knelt on the kitchen floor, his lips and chin shiny from his efforts, his hard-on raging against the fly of his khakis.

She lifted her head, tousled hair cascading over her breasts, and stared at his obvious errection for a moment. "All right…" She sat up, removing her dress and tossing it behind the table. She unstrapped her heels and instructed, "get back in your chair." Sam followed her request. "Unzip." He rolled his eyes, but complied, pulling free all eight, thick, hard inches of himself. Fiona's brow ticked upward, an expression of amused lust on her face. "Impressive, Sammy. Come closer." Sam grunted as he dragged the chair closer to the table, until his chest butted against its wooden surface. "Turn it around." With a grunt, Sam turned around the chair, his back to Fiona – the thrill of making himself vulnerable to her outweighed his confusion. _Is she going to ask me to do the hokey pokey?_ he wondered to himself. But he suddenly realized what she was getting at. He was facing the door – it would be his job to watch for Michael's entrance.

He felt the rickety table shake under Fiona's weight as she stood up. Sam feared it would break and wondered again what the hell she was thinking - a broken table's harder to hide than a couple of stains and scent of sex. But it held, as she turned around, crawled toward the edge of the table and, with great, practiced elegance, lept to her feet. She walked to Sam, planted her feet on either side of the chair and lowered herself, silky-smooth, over his cock. Then she locked her legs around his hips and the chair, imprisoning Sam in place.

Sam groaned at the feeling. She felt tight and strong. Fresh. Wet…

His eyes flew open. "SHIT. Get off!"

"Cramp?" Fiona wondered smoothly, her palms resting on the table, her body exuding calm.

"Condom. Forgot the condom…it's in my wallet…" She didn't move a muscle, and Sam forcefully grasped her shoulders. "I'm not gonna risk it, Fi. Just think of what the kids would be like." He shuddered. A kid with Fiona. That would be perfect karmatic payback for years of wanton dicking around.

She glared at him, pinning his wrists against the table. "You're such a chauvinist, Sam."

He relaxed, seeing the anger in her eyes. "Oh. So you're…"

She bit his earlobe and whispered, "you can let go, daddy. Fuck me hard."

The combination of those words and Fiona's grinding hips demanded he move. Unfortunately, her thighs and hands held him prisoner, and his guilt did an even better job of keeping him completely passive beneath her.

Fiona swiveled her hips, head tilted, sideways, watching him. "Daddy," she lilted, "I told you to fuck me." Her nails dug into his wrists, and she barked, "FUCK ME, Sam."

Biology, as it always did, eventually won out over personal honor for Sam – he growled, his hips smacking hard into hers on a down thrust, starting her ride with potent fury. They settled into a hard, jouncing rhythm, and Sam tried to make a play for her hips in a desperate attempt at controlling the motion.

Fiona's snake-charmer hips banged back and forth too rapidly for Sam to get a solid grip on her. She began bounding up and down on his cock, her strong form pounding his ass hard into the chair, driving him into her, bottoming out hard and fast. Grimacing on each stroke, her hands released his wrists, gripping the back of the chair for balance.

Fucking in an apartment without central air felt like walking through the Gobi desert without shoes. Sweat poured off of him – rolling in droplets down his face, soaking through his shirt and khaki shorts, slicking his hair. Even with the exertion it felt incredible, and Sam held himself back, using every trick he'd mastered over the years to stay hard, keep her riding him. After a few minutes of this he stood on the borderline between exhaustion and frustration. A wicked notion crossed his mind – cold beer. A few inches from his hand…

"SAM!" Fiona howled, as he dumped the remnants of his beer over the both of them. "You bastard!"

"Shut up. Beer's good for your hair," he growled, slamming up into her, sucking streams of booze from between her tits, off her shoulders.

"Lush," she muttered, clinging to his shoulders, enjoying the flick of his tongue.

"Psycho," he mumbled back, his hands in her hair, his mouth filled with her breast.

Then Fiona looked down at him – her icy veneer melted just a bit – her eyes wide and reflecting the utter surprise she seemed to feel. A tiny part of Sam was moved by her display of emotion.

She looked so damn vulnerable. She'd NEVER seemed vulnerable to him.

_I'm not gonna kiss Fi,_ he chanted to himself. _I'm not going to kiss Fi, I'm not going to kiss…_ but then he was kissing her, hard, and she moaned into his mouth, her tongue wrapping itself around his, gobbling greedily at his mouth. The combination of sensations undid Sam's control, and he came abruptly, came hard, his head falling back and hitting the table on a loud groan. He floated away on a cloud of bliss, feeling Fiona's whipcord form quivering around his in a combination of orgasmic delight and laughter.

Absolute silence filled the room as she leaned into his friendly embrace. Sam couldn't stir a muscle otherwise – he was the epitome of 'screwed to the wall'. Fiona had somehow absorbed his energy, and she uncoupled their bodies, climbed off of his lap and tossed a kitchen towel onto his knee.

Sam listened to her move about the kitchen, too satisfied to complain about the noise or consider zipping up. Eventually, Fi pecked his cheek. Sam opened his eyes to find her dressed, wearing a bemused expression, but otherwise seemingly unaffected by what they'd just done. She appraised him with her sharp gaze. "Good effort, Sammy."

He smirked and closed his eyes again, deciding that 'Sammy' was preferable to 'daddy.' "When you let Mikey know what happened, tell him I lasted for four hours."

Fi made a tisking noise as she strapped her shoes back on. "Such a liar, Sammy boy"

"Hey, if you're gonna get your ass kicked anyway you might as well make yourself look like a sex God."

"I'm not going to tell Michael," Fiona explained. Sam's eyes popped open, and she seemed to be offended by his obvious shock. "I'm not a heartless cow, Sam. What happened between us was…"

He knew. "A one-time thing. Got it."

She nodded her head curtly. "And it stays between us. I won't blow your cover if you won't blow mine."

Sam smirked. "Deal." He heard her heels click across the cement floor as she made for the door. Sam couldn't resist adding, "Hey Fi?" He heard the heels stop. "I had fun blowing your cover."

She glowered at him, the old disgust firmly back in place. "And I enjoyed teaching you the difference between a clitoris and a carcinogen. Good night, Sam."

"Night." He listened to the door slide closed behind her, closed his eyes again, enjoying the afterglow, knowing that he needed to tuck himself back into his pants and crawl into the shower so Mike would arrive home to something that resembled a regular Friday night at the loft. The sweat might be explicable, but he reeked of beer…and of Fi…

Sam dragged himself to the bathroom, tossing the soaked clothes into a garbage bag and sending them to the incinerator. It hadn't been a worthless experience, Sam convinced himself. The decent (no, terrific) sex notwithstanding, at least now he could understand Michael's obsession with the girl. Great lay, pretty face, good with kids, smart – it all nearly outweighed the fact that she was completely insane.

Woah. What the hell was he thinking? He sure as hell didn't have any romantic designs on her. Sam Axe was no idiot – even the blind could see that Mike and Fiona were destined to end up together.

And he was destined to stand there and watch them be happy together.

Sam sucked on his teeth as the steam enveloped him. The lack of clean towels on the rack before him felt like a personal affront.

Mikey really should've sprung for maid service.

THE END


End file.
